


What Is Love

by dracospungen



Series: Where the Stones meet the Sea [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Depressed Draco Malfoy, Depressed Harry Potter, Depression, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, Past Astoria Greengrass/Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 22:27:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14703726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracospungen/pseuds/dracospungen
Summary: Draco has invested all of his funds in charities and donations. "It gives you purpose," they say, but it doesn't give Draco a purpose. Darkness envelops him like a snug blanket, a thick smoke which no light can penetrate, and Draco does the one thing he's always been good at - possibly the only thing he's ever been good at: he runs.Where the stones meet the sea Draco Malfoy meets Harry Potter again, and he doesn't feel any hatred, there's no hatred left.





	What Is Love

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to The North Sea, it's possible to read them both separately but this fic will make more sense if you've read that one first. This is the second part and the last one.  
> I want to warn about the angst and the explorations of depression in its worst case scenarios, there will be hope though - do not fret, this might be easier than the first one, but nevertheless, please take care of yourselves, if there's any questions regarding details on the plot, mental illnesses, etc please don't hesitate to contact me on here or on tumblr @dracospungen, I'll try to get back to you as soon as possible.  
> Thank you so much if you've read the first part of this series and I truly hope you'll enjoy the ending of it!  
> This fic is only edited by me and me alone so I take full credit for all grammatical errors, mistakes and mishaps.

The darkness that came for Draco Malfoy hadn’t even bothered to knock on the door before entering his household, but if he was truly honest with himself, he might have opened the window to let the wind in himself but only because the air inside was too stagnant, too stale for one to breathe with ease.

The darkness had crept inside through the windows, filling the rooms with a thick smoke that Draco had only noticed once it was already crowding him from every corner, every angle, as if he had gotten used to the dark companion inside his head before it had even showed its face, as if he hadn’t bothered to look properly until it was so dark he couldn’t even make out the silhouettes around him.

People might have told him to go looking for help - but where was help when one needed it? There was no help for Draco Malfoy, this he knew - but what did it matter, Draco didn’t need anyone, he had learned long ago that people were a liability, he didn’t need them to be fulfilled. He didn’t need anyone.

The war had ended, his side had lost, and it had lost him his parents - one way or another: Lucius was locked up in Azkaban, probably where he would belong for the rest of his remaining days - however many they were, and mother having exiled herself to France, she kept writing him about the beauty of it, the delicious food (much better than England’s), the fashion, _oh the fashion_ , but nothing mattered to Draco anymore, nothing but to try and make up for everything he and his family had done wrong, and therefore slowly rebuild and regain the respect they had once held in their hands, the power, the wealth.

At first he hadn’t thought much of it, trying to put it off for as long as possible but he did need a woman, in the long run, eventually he would have to produce an heir, it didn’t matter that his mind was clouded by dark skies that never seemed to cease, he simply _had_ to get the Malfoy line going, growing, strong, as it had always been - but Draco had stopped looking; the only person he could think of had been Pansy, who had followed him wherever he went, who had petted his hair when he had needed it, but ultimately he couldn’t trust her, she had proved herself to be an excellent Slytherin in the war, choosing the most logical thing to do: give Potter up to the Dark Lord instead of letting herself and her friends face pain, torture and death - she was a true snake, slithering to whatever direction would prove most beneficial at the moment. There had been no one Draco could trust, except: Astoria. Astoria Greengrass.

*

At 5 years old Draco got his first broomstick, he had been dreaming of this day since as long as he could remember.

The feeling of euphoria as he had climbed it, kicked off the ground for the first time, only to realise that it wasn’t really as simple as that.

“Again, Draco,” father had called behind him, stern with the constant hint of disappointment, and Draco clenched his jaw and tried again, and again, and again, hours turning into days, turning into weeks, into a month without much improvement.

“A waste of money,” Lucius had said on a sigh, attempting to grab the broom away from Draco’s hands.

He couldn’t take it, Draco wouldn’t let him. This was the moment Draco had been waiting for, it couldn’t be over quite so soon.

“No!” he had replied, exasperated as he had mounted the broomstick once more, kicking for all that he had and before he realised it he was hovering above the ground, adding another feet and yet another, going higher and higher.

Afraid his father would snatch his dream away from him even before he had tried his wings he had flown away, wobbling his way towards nowhere in particular, his father screaming behind him, all control lost.

“You come back this instance! Draco!”

Draco didn’t know how long he had been flying, only aware of the wind whipping in his face, the summer breeze mild against his skin. He felt free in a way he had never felt before. In the air there were no boundaries, there were no rules. It was new, entirely new, and he felt content, happy, even. He didn’t stop until he found a field of poppies beneath him, small red spots covering the ground like small puddles after rain.

Draco jumped off the broom, strolling through the field, letting his hand touch the high grass that towered around him, stroking the flowers as he walked past them.

That was when another boy bumped into him, giggling until he had realised that it had made Draco fell over.

“Sorry,” the boy had said.

Draco didn’t know what to say because this boy, this tiny human being that most likely was about the same age as himself, was the very first person outside his own family that Draco had ever met. It was the first person he had ever seen who was around the same age as him.

“Want to be my friend?” the boy continued.

When Draco still didn’t reply the brown eyes narrowed, frowning at him, but not unkind, not judgingly like father’s, and he had started again, apparently not giving up: “can you talk?”

 _Don’t trust anyone_ , father’s words echoed in Draco’s ears and maybe that was why he had shook his head in reply - maybe it was better that way.

“Play with me? You don’t have to talk to play, come,” and the boy held out his hand and helped Draco to his feet again.

It didn’t take long until the boy with the brown eyes was giggling again, and Draco smiled in return, keeping his laugher quiet and inside his head instead, it was almost like flying, the way their tiny feet took them stumbling through the grass, the way the laughter made something inside him feel light and easy. Draco was happy and still completely unaware of what awaited him back at home. The way his mother would come flying after him, the way she would obliviate the brown eyed boy and his parent, the way she would tell father about Draco’s trip and how father then would look Draco with a serious look in the eyes, telling him for the first time how there were two types of people in the world: there were those like him and mother and Draco; smarter, more capable, and the disabled ones: they were slow, stupid, and mostly, they were filthy, impure. They were Muggles, and father told him how eventually he might meet some of his own kind who even were willing to mate with them, whose offspring were called Mudbloods. Draco would not keep any company with any of the sorts. He was simply better, and Draco felt proud. In father and mother’s eyes, Draco would always be better.

*

Even so Draco had come back to the field every summer, having bred an excellent Polyjuice potion, he would sneak out telling his parents he was practising for Quidditch and Lucius looked pleased for once and it made that part inside Draco become warm, he wanted to see that face on his father every day of the week, every hour, but the pleasure of it didn’t last very long, the shame coming over him once he was off soaring towards his goal on his broomstick with the reminder of his blunt lie, of the _filth_ he was involving himself in. He was better than this, he should be better than this - and yet curiosity had seemed to gotten the better of him.

He had met the boy again, just about a month after the first time their paths had crossed. The brown eyes boy had greeted him once again, and Draco had pretended to be mute for the second time.

Suddenly they were 14 and that was the first time he had been kissed, just a chaste press of lips against his, brown eyes smiling back at him.

“I love you,” the boy had told him and Draco couldn’t reply, kept his mask in place and only smiled back, leaning forward to press his lips against the other’s again this time more confidently.

*

“What is love?”

Mother had an unreadable look on her face, his father sporting a rather shocked one until the controlled facade fell back again.

“Love is when you’re willing to sacrifice yourself for someone else,” mother had replied and Lucius had given her a stern look.

“Don’t love anyone but yourself, Draco, it won’t do no one any good. You can’t help anyone if you don’t love yourself first and foremost, it could get you killed first and you’re not of any use dead.”

“Can I love someone even if I don’t know if I want to die for them?” He had asked instead.

“Love is a concept, Draco, it’s not real. Power is real, fear is real. Love is not”

*

_Love no one but yourself - but what is love? Does it exist? Power exists, fear exists. Love does not._

After listening to his father’s continuous lectures on the importance of marriage between two pure-bloods, the importance of the family line, Draco realised he couldn’t meet with the boy with the brown eyes with the silly smiles and giggles anymore. It had to end. It wasn’t decent, it was filthy, and Draco finally saw it for what it was.

The next time Draco stood face to face with him, the poppies waving in the light breeze, making the fringe fall over the boy’s forehead and Draco looked him in the brown eyes for the last time, raising his wand, arm outstretched.

“Obliviate.”

*

Draco had been dying to meet Harry Potter since the first time he had heard about him. He was something new, something strong and powerful, and as his father had told him, a someone who might bring a new horizon to a chosen few. Draco very much intended to be one of those few.

He had been eager to be his ally, to be in his proximity, to stand beside Harry Potter as he rose to power - but Draco didn’t even get to shake his hand, Harry Potter had refused and Draco was furious. Potter was stupid, a dumb tosser who didn’t understand anything, who didn’t actually _know_ anything. Draco had been so occupied with hating him that he hadn’t realised when Potter had started to grow up, when he wasn’t this small stupid shit anymore, how his thin frame had started to build muscles, how he had become more square, masculine in all its meaning and yet with long, long brown eyelashes and green glistering eyes and Draco had only half listened to his father’s advice: “this obsession with Harry Potter has to end!” Lucius voice sounded strained and Draco nodded abashed.

“Yes, father.”

Still, Draco hadn’t realised when his dreams had started encircling Potter, when he woke up with his first morning wood, insistent on staying, not going anymore, no matter how much Draco had thought about how very _wrong_ it was, how very _filthy_ it was, how _impure_ it was to wrap his hand around himself and tug until he was panting, gasping, coming with Potter’s name a whisper on his tongue. He hadn’t realised when this masked hatred had become an obscene obsession, and only realised once it was already too late to pretend otherwise. He had to hide it, bury it until it would be forgotten, keep it hidden for no one to find, not even himself.

*

Draco eventually realised that he had a filthy obsession with boys in general, not everyone, but he kept looking, and mostly, he kept looking at Potter, and it had to end, he would make it end.

*

What a waste of water, what a waste of time, and yet he hadn’t been able to do anything about it, the tears kept rushing down his cheeks no matter his attempts at stilling the small rivulets from streaming down either side of his face.

Draco had looked at his reflection, a poor echo of his former glory, where smooth alabaster skin should be there were purple splashes, making his grey eyes even duller as if all the light within had been blown away like candles on a cake - and then he had seen a figure in the glass that wasn’t himself, long brown strands of hair swirling as she had approached him and Draco bowed down his head, desperate to hide his terrible state. What would father say, if someone saw him like this? What would mother look like if she knew? He couldn’t be this weak, he had to do better, much better.

“Malfoy?”

“Go away!” he said, aiming to raise his voice in order to make it sound clear and steady, but instead it only made the tremblings more apparent, shaking as he pushed the words through his teeth.

It had been Astoria Greengrass, one year his junior, younger sister to Daphne Greengrass - another Slytherin, as had all Greengrass before them ever been; except for Astoria.

She had stayed with him, to her it hadn’t mattered that he was crying like a child, a child he no longer was, the proof printed on his very arm. She hadn’t minded being in the middle of the girl’s lavatory, she hadn’t minded staying until he could dry his tears off his face and let it stay dry, and most of all, she hadn’t spoken a word about it afterwards.

Draco had been so sure she would use this piece of information against him, but she wasn’t a Slytherin who would use such knowledge to their advantage, she only showed him kindness, a kindness he knew he wasn’t worthy of - so he decided not to meet her again. She could not be involved with the Dark Lord’s plan, she could not be involved with Draco Malfoy. He didn’t deserve it. Neither did she.

*

_Love is a concept._

Yet Draco couldn’t will the tears to stop streaming down his face that evening, the evening after the sentence had been made. His own father. He hated him more than anything, he wanted nothing to do with him. He wouldn’t want to die for him. He didn’t love him, and yet it hurt, yet he sat with his arms curled around his legs and couldn’t stop the tears from falling.

_What is love?_

Draco didn’t know.

*

It wasn’t until after the war that they had seen each other again, it was at one of the early parties that celebrated a rather large sum Draco had donated to the restoration of a few wizarding communities the Dark Lord had destroyed on his unsuccessful path to power.

Astoria Greengrass had still had the same beautiful long, silky hair as she had the first time he had laid his eyes on her, and she was not less pretty by now.

“Miss Greengrass,” he had greeted her, nodding courtly in her direction.

“Please, call me Astoria,” she had replied.

Draco hadn’t even considered that there could be something more between them than a courteous acquaintanceship; they had exchanged a few words that evening, and eventually they had met again, and again, her smile bright in a world still dark with the echoes of the terrors that shouldn’t be haunting him any longer. It was over, after all, and yet the darkness kept enveloping him, filtering away everything else.

“Let me help you,” she had said one evening when they were alone in his new flat, her voice kind, genuine worry hiding behind her mesmerising eyes of brown and greens.

Draco had recently sold his family home, the very home that had been inherited in the Malfoy line for as long as anyone could remember, and he had sold it, not being able to even think of father’s scowl or mother’s gasp, he had downed several glasses of champagne at the celebration of the money he had donated and a few more of Firewhiskey once he was once again surrounded by walls in colours he had never been surrounded by before and rooms even more unfamiliar - but it was the only way. He couldn’t stand staying at the manor, not with his parents gone to different places, he couldn’t stand the large empty rooms waiting to swallow him whole; it had been as if the darkness filling his mental rooms had taken a physical form at the manor, it was horrible. Therefore it had seemed only logical to get rid of it, and do something good with the money he got out of it, maybe it could make up for all the bad things he had caused, maybe people could start forgetting and begin to associate him with different things, new things, better things.

No matter, people were still throwing things at him if he showed his face at Diagon Alley, but he couldn’t back down, not yet, he had to try, and he would be better this time, better than his younger self had ever been.

Astoria had walked up to him, taking his glass from his fingers in a fluid motion and put it on the table beside them before taking of her shirt, her skirt following promptly and Draco was only half aware of what was about to happen until she was straddling him on the sofa, looking down at him with a look in her eyes that Draco knew he didn’t deserve. He didn’t deserve her.

“I-,” he began but she put her lips on his and he never got to say what he was about to say.

“You don’t have to be alone,” she had said once she had broken their kiss and Draco had only looked up at her in wonder.

“There’s a difference,” he had said as she had started caressing his neck with her delicate lips, “between choosing to be alone, find peace in solitude and being lonely.”

“And aren’t you?” she had countered, stopping to meet his eyes, “lonely?”

Draco didn’t reply, possibly because he didn’t feel like lying to her and instead let her fingers busy themselves as he watched, stripping off her clothes, but when reaching for his shirt he stilled her hands, lowering them instead to his belt and she continued without asking any questions. Maybe she thought it was a kink, keeping his shirt like that, maybe she thought that was how eager he was, he didn’t really mind.

They continued kissing, making their way to his bedroom, stumbling upon his bed.

Draco closed his eyes, his hands between her legs and it was wet and he stroked tentatively.

“Look at me,” she said and he did, studying her face for displeasure, but there were none, just openness, kindness.

She ran her hands along his thighs, her hand cupping him through undergarments. It felt strange, unusual when it wasn’t his own hand, his own familiar movement. Draco felt unsure, self-conscious in the way she was looking down at him, her breathing a bit ragged.

Eventually she stopped, her hands falling off him and she smiled, a small smile that made her look soft, and Draco wanted to embrace her in a way he knew he shouldn’t. _Don’t keep anyone close_.

“It’s okay, you know.”

“What?” Draco asked.

“It’s okay if you don’t think of me like that,” her voice was kinder than he deserved, so so kind.

Astoria’s hands came to rest around his, stilling the strokes he had continued to give her.

“You’re beautiful,” he said.

“But that’s not enough.”

“It can be.”

She shook her head, reaching for her shirt and started buttoning it again.

“I like you,” he tried.

“But you don’t love me.”

_Love no one but yourself. What is love? Does it exist?_

“It would have been easier if I was male, wouldn’t it?” she continued, and she didn’t sound sad, she didn’t even sound surprised.

“You knew,” he breathed, desperate to look elsewhere, “is it that obvious?”

Dread was crawling up his spine, he felt sick, filthy, wrong, wrong, wrong.

The darkness that Astoria usually was able to keep at bay threatening to take over once again. There was no hope for him.

“No, it’s not - but for me it is. I know you, Draco, and it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay,” he managed, breath coming out harshly and that had nothing to do with arousal and everything to do with sheer panic, he wanted to plead to her, ask her to marry him, maybe it could have worked, if he closed his eyes, maybe he could get past moderate-level of arousal, maybe he could masterbute until he was ready to burst and he could empty himself into her, maybe she could carry his child and he could make his father proud of their name again, make mother move back to England - but it wouldn’t be fair to Astoria, she deserved better, he certainly didn’t deserve her.

“They will understand, they love you Draco.”

_Love, what is love?_

“You can’t tell anyone,” he said instead, barely a whisper.

“You know I won’t.”

He knew she wouldn’t - another reason why he didn’t deserve her.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault.”

_It’s my fault. I’m the one who’s faulty. I’m the one who’s wrong. Filthy._

*

Draco wasn’t lonely, he choose to be alone, it was a difference - because he had chosen, hadn’t he? After so long of being inside a house crawling of people that only made him feel small, a house that used to be a place to call _home_ , but now only made him feel frightened, now associated with things, people, places where he didn’t belong - he had chosen to be alone.

Draco decided to pick up painting again, after so many years of having taken the art class at Hogwarts he could just as well try to use it for something.

Draco didn’t want to admit that painting was about the only thing that could calm him down, that could clear his mind for just a little time, and for a few moments, he would forget that he was alone. He would forget the darkness waiting for him.

*

When the portrait was finished Draco felt like ripping it apart, clawing his way through the canvas until he had made a hole so big he could see through it completely - but when his reflection started moving, looking him in the eyes and told him: “you don’t have to be alone,” Draco couldn’t contain the tears that bottled up, filled his eyes and spilled down his cheeks, and eventually he had started talking to himself, together they had lived through the nightmares haunting him at night, together they had felt the darkness surrounding them.

He was the most pathetic being he had ever known, in truth he wasn’t much better than a Muggle, the way his only confidant was a portrait of himself. _Trust issues_ , others could have said, but who else could he have turned to. Alone. It was a choice, wasn’t it? Alone was safe, and easy. Alone meant purity. It meant no brown eyes and giggled, it meant no black hair pointing in all directions, it meant no ugly red colours. It meant Draco - and that was a choice.

*

Draco Malfoy was a disgrace to his family, a boy in a man’s body who always made all the wrong choices. When he thought he was closer to make amends for his many wrongdoings people in the streets reminded him of how far away he still was from reaching that very goal, when seeing his father’s disappointed eyes he knew he would never be able to make him proud, upon reading his mother’s letters he knew she would never be coming back.

What good would any of it do? He might be able to help people with his money, but it didn’t help him. It should have, people tend to say that: it gave them a purpose. Astoria had thought that much - but she had never been a Slytherin.

It didn’t give Draco a purpose. He was a failure, and he would always be one, maybe it was the only thing he would ever know.

Would it always be like this? Would it ever get easier?

What did it matter? What did any of it matter?

*

The feather quill felt light between his fingers, the ink smooth against the parchment.

Draco wrote a last will and testament.

It was pathetic, but that seemed to be his trademark nowadays.

Potter, bloody Potter with his stupid hair and ridiculous spectacles, but he deserved it. If someone deserved to be haunted for life by his very ghost it would be Potter - so Draco willed his self-portrait to be given to Potter’s hands once he was gone. He set the date of receivement 6 months after said disappearance. When everyone else would already have forgotten about it, when the _Daily Prophet_ would be done talking about his unfortunate ending, then Potter could be given this. Then he could be reminded in silence of a man he probably never cared for, who was just a pain in the arse, but at least he had been that.

This wasn’t an obsession, it was hate, pure hate and Draco Malfoy hated Harry Potter.

*

The wind was rough, slapping his face over and over again, the darkness crowding him in a very physical way that Draco hadn’t experienced since standing in the entrance hall of Malfoy Manor. The water was even rougher, shanting an unintelligible prayer, punching the stone walls unceasing force, making the water pour down like a heavy rain on his hair and shoulders.

He stepped closer to the edge, swallowing at the feeling of emptiness under his toes which were pointing out towards the sea. It was such a small step, just a tiny little push, and it would be over, he would be gone. He wouldn’t have to deal with any of it anymore, he could outrun the darkness in his head, he could make it all disappear.

Draco inhaled, it sounded shaky, maybe it was the cold wind, maybe it was the water that was steadily soaking him through his clothes down to his skin.

He took another breath, he was so close, so close to end it all, he had the power in his own hands, he had the power to choose. It could all be over - and yet tears started to well from his eyes in a way he hadn’t let them in years.

In the end Draco hadn’t been able to take the final step, he hadn’t been able to welcome the screaming water to enter his ears, his nose, his mouth, his lungs. He was pathetic.

Draco had thought it would have been easy, but not even the darkness that penetrated him from every angle was enough to win over his cowardness. Draco was still a scared child, too scared to give himself up.

The worst thing was, Draco was afraid that that wasn’t everything, that a tiny part of him still held onto some kind of useless hope.

He closed his eyes when he was back in his bed in the still unfamiliar flat of his, duvets and blankets curled around him and even so his body was still trembling, from the cold, from his patheticness, the sea still screaming loud in his ears, reminding him of his own failure. He couldn’t even do this one thing, he couldn’t do anything.

*

Maybe there was another way out.

*

Draco had used Polyjuice before, but Polyjuice didn’t sustain what he needed it to, it would only last for so long, and Draco needed something permanent, something that would never fail him.

He began brewing his own potion, a potion that would let someone take someone’s appearance for as long as possible; which had turned out to be a couple of months - but it wasn’t enough. A potion would never be enough, eventually it would dry, evaporate and the real person would be on display for everyone to see. It was not safe enough, not nearly good enough - and then he realised, he had been going at it from the wrong direction. He didn’t need a potion, he needed a spell, a spell that would last for as long as the one casting it wanted it to stick.

A year later Draco had come up with a new spell, a spell that was the key to the freedom he had never before held in his hands. He could go, wherever he wanted, and no one would follow. He felt like flying.

*

Draco faked his own death.

It had been easier than he would have thought it to be. He had gotten a body from the morgue at the Ministry, not very difficult, just a simple use of his new spell and he could change his appearance at will.

He sneaked in, got what he wanted and watched as the body before him changed, brown hair turning almost white, a round face turning pointy and sharp, thin lips filling out, shorter legs stretching out.

Draco took a deep breath as he looked down upon what looked very much like himself, no, it _was_ him, it _was_ Draco Malfoy. This was what they would all see. Pride took over nausea and Draco smiled faintly to himself. At least they could remember him as braver than he actually was, as if he had been able to face death without weasel himself out - not unlike what he had done so many times before. This time, he would have embraced it - or that was the way he would be remembered, if anyone would remember him. Possibly not, at most he would make a rather small notice in the _Prophet_ discussing stupid theories on why he had chosen this ending, or, it might slip them all, maybe no one would notice, the money wouldn’t be gone either since he had already seen to that. No one would notice, well, _just as well_ , he thought.

Draco lowered his wand towards the pink slashes of scartisue on the body, _his_ body’s torso and extracted them, made them disappear. No one had to see that, no one had to know that that was another one of his failures, and especially not Potter, if he would ever get the chance to see his body. He would not let him get that satisfaction. The ones who did remember could all fill that in with a good use of spells and potions. No one needed know how he had been permanently marked by Potter’s wand.

*

On the 5th of October, one year after Draco had thrown the body into the North Sea he had decided to go back.

He had visited many places that year, he had been around the world, in search for something, anything - if only he had known what. A will to live, possibly. He couldn’t make himself die, but he couldn’t find the joy in breathing either. It was a never ending loop, a slippery slope, it didn’t get any better.

A year later he felt that maybe, maybe seeing the cliff and the water again would have him realise something, anything. Maybe he would either decide to take that last step towards the darkness, maybe he was braver today, or he could feel the adrenaline pumping through his veins, making him stagger back from the edge, remind him that somewhere, he was still too scared, too _weak_ to end it.

He hadn’t wanted to come back as a stranger, but as himself, so he had temporarily removed his mask, walked up to the cliff pointing out towards the roaring storm where water and stone met - only to realise, he wasn’t alone.

Panic surged through him as the dark silhouette arose, shaking it walked towards him and Draco turned his back at it. Thoughts swirling in an endless circle in his head and he couldn’t extract even one to make sense of it.

Curiosity won and what would it matter anyhow, he could use a Confundus charm or Obliviate them and the stranger wouldn’t know what they’d seen, they wouldn’t be able to tell anyone.

Draco turned to look back over his shoulder.

The figure came into the light, locks of black hair in a mess, glasses shaped like the moon hanging above them rested on the bridge of a small but sharp nose, eyes glittering green in surprise, a scar faintly visible through the black mop of hair.

“Potter?” Draco breathed, unable to stop himself.

The young man before him stopped sobbing for a bit, his hand reaching out until it was mere inches from Draco’s face, hesitant, ghosting over his cheekbone as if afraid of knowing what it would be like to feel skin against skin, or possibly as if afraid the form of Draco Malfoy would disappear altogether if he closed the space between his fingers and Draco’s cheek, as if he believed he would be going through him, as if Draco was nothing but a mental image on the insides of Potter’s own mind.

“What are you doing here?” Draco’s voice was smaller than he had wanted it to be and Potter’s hand retreated, as if he had realised that he didn’t want to touch Draco after all, as if it the very thought was frightening.

“I was looking for you,” Potter’s eyes were set on him, searching his face, lingering on everything, Draco’s eyes, his nose, possibly his lips, perhaps even some detail, a birthmark or a scar he had never before realised he had, “tell me…” Potter whispered, swallowing, “have I found you?”

“I’m found,” Draco replied, although he didn’t know if it was true.

*

Where the stones met the sea Draco Malfoy had met Harry Potter again, and he didn’t feel any hatred, there weren’t any hatred left.

*

Draco had thought he had felt at home at the manor, between the dark walls ornate with family portraits, the marble floor in the entrance hall and the dining room where the grey stones met dark ebony floorboards in the bedrooms, high to the ceiling with windows facing the enormous garden outside. It hadn’t stayed like that very long, soon nothing had felt like home, not the manor, and definitely not Hogwarts, where life continued as if nothing was happening, as if the Dark Lord wasn’t on the horizon, just waiting for the proper moment. After that it had only been a downwards spiral.

Draco had felt lost for so long he couldn’t remember what it felt like not to be. Drifting one way when it suited him or his family, fleeing whenever he could - Draco had no place that was his anymore, he didn’t know where his _place_ was. He had thought he had gotten one when buying himself a flat but it hadn’t felt right. He had thought he had been able to outrun the darkness - he hadn’t. It seemed it could find him anywhere.

It was… odd, to find himself in Potter’s flat.

Draco hadn’t realised he had been staring until Potter had asked him if he liked the place, which was ironic, because there was nothing to see, nothing except feet upon feet of white paint and furniture. Maybe light was what followed Potter wherever he went, the way the darkness never left Draco’s side.

Draco knew Potter had questions, he had expected them to come as soon as Potter had Apparated them inside, but instead he had spelled them dry, giving Draco a blanket that he had thrown over his shoulders, put on the kettle, brewing the tea and pushing a cup towards Draco in silence with a faint smile never leaving his lips.

“I’ll…” Potter had began, nodding towards a door and disappeared inside.

When he showed up again he had shown Draco inside, nodding again, this time towards the bed - also notably white, covers and all.

“I… I made the bed for you, new sheets, covers… you know,” Potter said, swallowing every now and then, shooting a few glances at Draco, “is that… is it okay?”

Draco had nodded in reply and Potter had disappeared out the room and closed the door after giving Draco a few more glances, adding: “I’ll be sleeping in the sofa… if there’s anything… just…”

“Yeah,” Draco had said.

If _found_ was the antonym to _lost_ , Draco didn’t know what that made him. He felt lost, because this wasn’t his flat, it was a white space, entirely too white, an empty space, as if it didn’t exist at all, and yet he did feel found.

 _Potter had been looking for him_.

Why? Why would anyone have cared? Why would Potter, of all people, care - even after Draco had been long gone?

Draco fell asleep, and the darkness didn’t haunt him that night - maybe it was the white of Potter’s flat, maybe it was too white for Draco’s darkness to force itself inside.

*

“The body wasn’t me,” Draco blurted, surprised at himself for having given up the truth so easily, “I stole it from the morgue.”

Potter looked like someone had properly Petrificus Totalused him.

“I saw…” he started, “I mean, I didn’t see but I saw the pictures, when I was digging for…” he stopped himself and Draco wondered exactly what Potter had been digging for, why had he taken an interest, why did anything about Draco Malfoy matter to Harry Potter?

“It looked just like-,”

“Yes,” Draco said, “I, shall we say, transfigured-,”

“But that doesn’t explain why-,” Potter looked more than a little perplexed.

“Why they couldn’t transfigure him back, nor why they couldn’t detect any transfiguration spell, no I know, I did think of that. Instead I came up with my own version with a similar effect as a combination of a Polyjuice potion and a transfiguration spell to make it last longer, more precisely until the caster of the spell heaves it, making it undetectable unless you know what you’re looking for and-,”

“Why come back?”

Draco swallowed. That was the thing though.

“I’m not coming back,” he said, voice even this time and it felt like a victory, even though it was small.

He couldn’t. What was Potter expecting? For him to stay? No, that was absurd.

“Draco…”

Draco looked up, the beginning of a frown settling between his eyebrows and he immediately smoothed it out.

Potter had said the name as if it was something he had been saying for years, as if it was something familiar, something _pleasant_ even, like… a friend. What a joke.

“Don’t call me that.”

_You don’t know me, you don’t know me Potter._

*

The day went by in silence, Potter wrote on parchements and read through others, until the evening came, darkness laying itself around them and suddenly Potter was looking at him as if he was seeing him for the first time, his eyes pleading with something Draco could only translate into a question, a question Draco didn’t know the answer to.

“Stay?” Potter asked, moisture sticking to his eyelashes but no droplets came tumbling down, as if he wouldn’t let them, didn’t dare to in fear of… of what exactly - Draco’s reply?

Draco didn’t know.

He blinked instead, opening his mouth slightly hoping for an answer to come forth but nothing came.

“Please, Malfoy…”

 _Malfoy_. It was as if Potter was trying his very best to make Draco agree, as if calling him Malfoy would make him more comfortable, as if he did remember Draco asking him to call him that; but also as if he didn’t know that that was a slippery slope, a reminder of all his many failures, of everything he could have done better, everything he could have _done_ and yet, it didn’t sound like a failure in Potter’s mouth, he made it sound like something _good_ something he wanted, something he needed.

“Why?” Draco asked on his exhale, not entirely sure why he was even asking.

He should tell him no, he should be running, he should be obliviating Potter again. It should be easy. _Why?_ It could just as well have been directed to himself. Why did he bother? Why couldn’t he say no? Why did it matter what Potter thought?

Draco was afraid he might already know the answer to that.

“Why?” Potter echoed, “because I need you.”

“What make you believe that I need you?”

*

“Why?”

“Why?”

“Why did you do it?”

“Oh,” Draco replied stupidly, he wasn’t stupid.

Possibly it was better than the truth: being stupid.

Draco took a deep breath, steeling himself anyhow.

“I think I was running away.”

Potter didn’t reply, he was quiet, quiet in a way Draco couldn’t remember him being ever before. He had always loved the attention, being the Golden Boy - or maybe that was more Draco than Potter. Maybe Potter had always been quiet, maybe it was the other’s who had done most of the noises. Draco found he couldn’t recall which it was.

“I’ve always been running away. It’s what I do. It’s what I did at the Battle of Hogwarts, it’s-,”

“That’s over, and you’re older,” Potter said.

Draco looked up, into those green piercing eyes of his.

“I’m still the same.”

“Things change.”

“Not everything.

“Everyone changed,” when Draco didn’t reply Potter took a deep breath, continuing: “you changed.”

“How do you know?”

*

It was stupid. The way Draco stayed in Potter’s flat even though he had no reason to. Maybe it was the company of another wizard, not always being on the run, in search for something, whatever it was. Maybe it was the quiet company he needed, that Potter provided for him. Hot tea in the morning and a place to sleep in the night, surrounded by blindingly white covers that somehow kept the darkness away. Maybe it was in the way they moved around each other, the way Potter was always doing something, but never leaving the flat, the way they seemed to spend all of their time together. Maybe it was the way he apparently _trusted_ Potter enough to stay there, to not obliviate him and run again.  

 _Don’t trust anyone_.

He couldn’t start trusting Potter.

That’s why he decided to run, anyway.

*

Draco had always thought he had chosen to be alone.

He hadn’t, he had only chosen to lie to himself, run from the truth much like he ran from everything else.

 _“And aren’t you? Lonely?”_  
Yes, yes he was. Draco was lonely and he had no one. Not anymore, not after deciding to let someone else take the leap he never dared to.

The people he had gotten to know on his travels were okay, they just didn’t know him. They only knew a mask. It wasn’t much different from anyone else, not really. When had Draco ever been honest with anyone? When had he been honest with himself?

*

Eventually he showed up outside Potter’s flat again, the rain pouring down, soaking him like waves casting themselves onto a cliff.

“Draco?” Potter had said, looking at the state of him and Draco wondered when he had stopped being _Malfoy_ to simply become Draco.

He had never thought of asking before, maybe he could now, maybe there was still time.

Potter opened the door, letting him inside, still with a disbelieving look on his face.

“I’m real,” Draco felt compelled to say, not sure if it made it better or worse.

“How do I know?”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“I want to,” Potter replied, Adam’s apple moving as he swallowed, “make me, please.”

“The body,” Draco said, pushing the words out, “it doesn’t have any scars, there should be photos, I think the Ministry-,”

“Yes, I’ve seen them.”

Draco blinked at him. How much had Potter looked into his case after he had supposedly died? What was it to him? What did his death mean to him?

Draco swallowed, looking down at his dripping clothes and shrugged his outerwear off his shoulders, letting it splash onto the floor. He took a deep breath, taking one last glance at Potter’s green stare and started at the buttons of his shirt, opening them up one by one.

Once he was finished, he let it fall as well and he raised his gaze for the first time since he had started undressing.

“Draco…” Potter said for the second time and Draco shivered, not sure if it was the soft, casual use of his name or the fact that he was soaking wet and half naked.

Potter came up to him, taking the few steps that had separated them and reached with a hand and Draco was almost sure he would touch him when Potter’s fingers stopped just an inch away from his quivering chest.

The scars were faint, horizontal and vertical slashes all over his torso.

Draco expected Potter to make a comment, ask for forgiveness, give an apology, but he didn’t, instead he said: “how do I know you’re real?”

“Touch me,” were the words that came out of his mouth and Draco swallowed again, hard.

Potter’s eyes searched his, and then he dropped his gaze, his index finger reaching for one of the scars and Draco inhaled when he could felt it touch, or, it might have been Potter, he wasn’t sure.

“I’m real,” Draco said after taking a deep breath.

“You are,” Potter said and Draco tore his eyes from the finger that traced the long reminders of cuts put by that very person, to look up, and into Potter’s eyes.

Potter was crying.

“You’re real,” he said again, disbelieving but smiling all the same.

“Yes,” Draco said on an exhale, “yes I am.”

*

“I have nowhere to go.”

“Then by all means, stay.”

*

“What were you doing out there?” Draco finally found the courage to ask, “on the cliff, on the 5th of October.”

Draco had thought he had been obvious enough, that he was asking why Potter had bothered enough to investigate, cared enough about _him_ \- but obviously it wasn’t about him at all, it was about Potter.

“For the same reason you did,” Potter replied, voice all too even as he sipped on his tea - actual tea, actual _quality_ tea (Draco wondered when Potter had started drinking real quality tea - maybe he had always done so, maybe Draco just hadn't cared to notice before).

“What?”

“I meant to kill myself, I went there to-,”

“Yes, I heard you,” Draco blinked, and blinked, and blinked, the words not really registering.

This wasn’t right, _it wasn’t right._

_“I meant to kill myself.”_

Potter had went there to jump. He had gone there to take that final step, to let the sea swallow him. He had gone there for the exact same reasons as he himself had.

“I didn’t do it to inspire anyone to-,”

“I know,” Potter cut in, his voice still too steady, too clear for this topic.

“Why?”

“Why?” Potter echoed, “isn’t it obvious?”

It wasn’t right, everything was wrong. Draco hadn’t been brave enough to do it. Potter was brave, he was courageous, he was a bloody Gryffindor. It wasn’t a surprise that Draco couldn’t do it, he had run, he always had - but Potter? What excuse did he have?

“But you’re not weak…”

Potter laughed, he _laughed_ and Draco didn’t understand, he didn’t understand at all. It sounded as if Potter had cracked a very difficult arithmancy which Draco hadn’t.

“Weak?” Potter said.

“Don’t repeat everything I say.”

“Okay.”

“I don’t… I don’t understand. I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t even off myself because that’s how _weak_ I _am_ , I wasn’t brave enough, I wasn’t-,”

“Draco,” Potter said and Draco stopped mid-sentence, “it’s not weak to not commit suicide. Life is difficult, it means choices, hardship, and so much more. Death can be easy, we don’t know what’s past the Veil, it could be peace, it could be seeing our loved ones again, it could be nothing, emptiness, a real end, whatever it is, and due to that uncertainty, choosing _that_ instead of facing your problems - to choose life above death, Draco, that’s brave, that’s very, very brave. To cling to life even when there’s little hope left, when you feel like nothing matters anymore, and decide to fight against that, that’s brave, that’s the very definition of brave.”

“Oh, I see, so jumping is weak,” Draco said to his own cup before him, completely forgotten.

“No, Draco, that is not weak.”

“Then what is weak? I don’t understand!”

“Nothing is weak, Draco, feeling like there’s no other choice but to end it, that’s not weak. It means you’re very troubled, and that life is being too hard on you, but it’s not weak to give in, it just means you need help, and there is help to receive, even when you think there’s not.”

A thumb stroked over Draco’s cheekbone and he almost jerked away at the touch before he realised it was Potter. He hadn’t noticed when he had stood up and walked over to Draco, nor how his body had betraying him once again and silent tears were freely running down his cheeks, unashamed - unlike himself. He sobbed once, twice.

“Draco, you’re not weak, you are very, very brave.”

When the tears stopped Draco looked at Potter again, the way he was crouching beside him.

“So are you,” he said, his voice hoarse.

*

“What stopped you?” Draco had asked later that evening.

“A reason to live,” Potter said, a very faint smile tugging at his lips, “everyone needs that.”

*

It was dark outside when Draco woke, and for a moment he was afraid he was stuck with the darkness again, that there was no way out, but then he realised that the walls were grey around him, not black, and he released a breath he hadn’t realised he had been holding in.

A scratching sound might have been the reason he stalked out to the sitting room, only to discover Potter hovering above parchments with a quill in hand - again.

“What are you doing?”

Potter stirred.

“Sorry, didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Still not… used to you being… here.”

Draco nodded, chewing his lower lip and then looked up at Potter, only to see his green eyes fixed somewhere lower on his face. Draco released his lip from his teeth and Potter went back to his parchment although he wasn’t writing anything anymore, only staring at it, as if that would do the work for him.

Draco walked up to the sofa where he sat down then, perching on the edge, fiddling slightly with his hands - he stopped and looked back at Potter, who’s own gaze was fixed on him.

“Draco…” he whispered and Draco wondered once more what had made him become _Draco_ to Potter.

Potter shuffled forward, slowly closing the space between them, and as he came forward, only a few inches between them he looked down, notably staring blatantly at Draco’s lips.

“Let me touch you,” he whispered.

“What?” Draco replied, the volume mirroring Potter’s.

“Please, Merlin…”

“Draco,” Draco said and he could hear rather than see Potter’s harsh intake of air at his name falling from his own mouth.

“Please, let me touch you, Draco.”

_What is love? Does it exist? Is this love?_

“I don’t know,” Draco said, voice trembling and he cursed himself for it.

“Can I hold you, at least?”

“Okay.”

Draco didn’t point out that that could technically be classified as _touching_ as well.

*

Draco spent more and more nights in Potter’s sofa. It should have been stupid, considering Potter’s bed was more suited for it, considering Potter’s sofa was rather small, only barely fitting two grown men, but it wasn’t, whatever it was it didn’t feel stupid.

Draco let Potter hold him through the night, and it kept the darkness away even better than the bed and white covers, maybe Potter really was followed by light.

Draco soon learned that wasn’t the case. Most nights were alright, easy, but some were bad. Potter would wake, sometimes screaming, sometimes just quiet moaning in pain, sometimes in complete silence, his body always shivering, shaking, at worst.

“Potter?” Draco had asked the first time it had happened and for a second he thought Potter was doing better, his eyes flickering with something for the briefest moment and then the shaking took over once again.

“The storm won’t stop,” he had replied weakly.

“What storm?” but Potter only continued to shake and Draco had clenched his jaw, unsure what to do he had turned around, hauled him into an awkward embrace, but it didn’t matter, Draco wanted that trembling to stop, he wanted the storm to stop, even though the night was calm and the white of Potter’s flat silent.

Maybe Potter’s weather was similar to Draco’s darkness, something others couldn’t see.

Potter had clung to him in return, making fists in Draco’s shirt as if afraid of letting go and Draco just let him, resting his chin on top of Potter’s hair, moving his hands in soothing circles at the small of his back.

If he could, he would try to make the storm stop haunting him like Potter’s white walls kept his darkness a little further away.

*

“I love you,” Potter had said the following morning.

Draco had almost dropped his scalding hot tea all over himself.

Potter had said it so easily, like something he had been thinking for a very long time and just decided to finally say, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world - still Draco felt the seriousness behind, the intent in Potter’s eyes he couldn’t quite pinpoint.

_What is love? Does it exist?_

Is this love?

Draco didn’t know, he couldn’t reply, so he smiled in return, unsure.

*

“Why don’t you ever let me touch you?”

“You’re touching me now,” Draco replied frowning, not that Potter was able to tell with Draco’s back facing him.

“You know what I mean.”

“No, please spell it out for me Potter.”

Potter might have grimaced, but there was really no way of telling so Draco turned then, coming face to face with him, just inches apart, maybe they were too close, all too close.

 _Don’t keep anyone close_ \- but Potter wasn’t anyone, he was Harry bloody Potter, that wasn’t _anyone_.

“Is it that unbearable?”

Draco swallowed, because truthfully speaking, there was nothing he wanted more, and wasn’t that all sorts of wrong? He shouldn’t want to. Why did he want to?

_What is love?_

Surely this wasn’t it.

*

“You can talk to me.”

“I am.”

“Draco…”

“What?”

“Is it because I’m male?”

Yes.

“No.”

“Is it that… you don’t have to reply but, I need to know.”

“Considerate of you Potter.”

“Is it… is it that you’re not attracted to men?”

Oh how he wished that was true.

*

“I’ve always been wrong,” Draco admitted a few days later.

Potter didn’t reply, but his eyes did, _“tell me,”_ they said, and Draco did.

He told him of fields in the summer, of red poppies like raindrops, of his first rides on a broomstick.

“There’s nothing wrong with that,” Potter said.

Draco swallowed, because there was, he just hadn’t been able to tell him why yet, after he had told him, Potter would understand, he would see reason, and he would look at Draco the way he deserved to be looked at: with disgust.

“There was a boy,” he said eventually, voice barely a whisper, and then he couldn’t keep it inside any longer, like tears kept at bay for too long the words spilled out of him, slipped out in a messy order as shame took him under its care, stroking him over his back and Draco shivered.

“He doesn’t even know my name,” he finished, as if that was the most important part of it all, as if he could hide his forbidden feelings if this was the only thing he was upset about.

Draco waited, expecting pity, but Potter smiled at him, and it wasn’t pity.

“So tell him,” he said instead, “tell him because nothing is more precious than love.”

*

_What is love? Does it exist?_

If it does, is it truly so wrong?

*

Draco went to the fields he visited as a kid, but no one was there, he was alone, not even accompanied by wild flowers this time, he shouldn’t be surprised, it was soon winter after all.

“Draco,” Draco said to the empty field, the brown grass dead when he wasn’t, “Draco is my name.”

*

“Do you love him?”

Draco stared at Potter.

“Of course I don’t,” he replied, maybe a bit too fast.

Potter gave him a look, but it wasn’t mocking.

“Do you know what love is?”

“Of course.”

Draco didn’t have a clue, he had never known the answer to that questions - only, that’s not really true anymore. He thinks he might know. He’s scared to admit it, so he doesn’t.

“So do you, do you love him?”

“No,” Draco repeated.

“It’s okay if you do.”

“But I don’t,” he continued, “I-I think I love someone else.”

*

“He’s a very lucky man.”

“What makes you think it’s a man?”

Potter looked at him, studied him silently again.

“But it is, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Draco breathed, willing himself to say it.

_What is love?_

Is this love? Does he want it to be love?

“You should go to him, stop wasting your time here.”

 _Oh, Potter, I’m already here_ , but Draco couldn’t make himself say it.

What if it was true? What if Draco loved him? This was just temporary for Potter, he just wanted to touch him, and hold him as if afraid he might disappear. Eventually it would come to an end, it always did. Everything had a beginning and an end, this was no exception.

*

 _Love no one but yourself_ \- but Draco didn’t love himself anymore, once he had, or so he had thought, now he wasn’t so sure.

_What is love?_

He thought about Potter and him finding a reason to live. Could his reason be another person? Truly that couldn’t be a healthy way to live, live for another being? Eventually he asked Potter: “can the reason to exist, be for someone else?”

Potter smiled back at him.

“If it means you’ll learn to live for yourself as well.”

“Then yes, I’ve found a reason as well.

“A reason to live?”

Draco nodded.

“I’m glad,” Potter smiled.

*

Potter was staring, he had been staring several minutes straight and it was soon adding to be a whole minute.

“You're staring,” Draco felt like stating the obvious because, what else could he do?

Potter blinked.

“Sorry,” he said, gaze lowering, “sometimes I still can’t believe you’re actually you, you know, not a…” they finished at the same time: “dead,” Draco said, “painting,” said Potter.

Painting.

Draco had almost forgotten about the bloody portrait.

“Merlin… I’m sorry about that,” he started, thinking about how he had thrown it in Potter’s way and hoping for it to pester him for… what? The rest of his life?

Potter looked at him, confusion written all over his face.

“Do you know what gave me a reason to live?”

Draco shook his head, how could he possibly know?

“The portrait of you,” a smile was playing on Potter’s lips, a _smile_ and it looked _fond_.

“What?” Draco blinked.

 _How?_ He wanted to ask.

“Where is the goddamn portrait anyway?”

There was a silence, and Potter shuffled with his feet in one of his more nervous manners.

“What?” Draco repeated at Potter’s behaviour.

“I threw it into the sea.”

“You, you what?” he said for the third time.

“I didn’t think-”

“Lovely.”

Absolutely fucking splendid.

Draco didn’t know how many hours he had spent on that painting, how long he had practised before he even started on it, with both the strokes of his brushes and adding the magic, swirling his wand until the painting came to life.

This was how much his gift meant to Potter. Another thing to be thrown out, another piece of garbage.

He should have thought better than to think-

What? That Potter would keep a portrait of him, of Draco bleeding Malfoy? Yet it felt like taking a Stupefy to his stomach.

Here he was, having thought about love, _love_.

“I-,” he started, not sure what would come next other than that he was suddenly in desperate need for air, “I can’t stay,” and he had done it again, he had bolted for the door, running away, like he always did, once again.

*

Draco thought he could go back to travelling, going around the world. He thought he might even enjoy it - but as soon as he stepped his foot onto the cold hard stones all he could feel was the darkness crowding him again, coming from every corner to make him feel small, unimportant, he was unimportant.

He was only half-conscious of where he had Apparated, not even half-conscious of the fact that Potter had guessed right and Apparated to the very same place, footsteps coming closer, pausing behind him unlike the roaring sounds around them.

“Am I this predictable?”

“No.”

Strong arms embraced him from behind, forcing the darkness away and Draco stifled a sob, his eyes fixed on the waves that cast themselves at each other in a never faulting rage, a row that never ended, bickering and mockering each other, abusing each other, whipping the other harder and faster, striking and splashing onto each other, destroying themselves as they cast their bodies together.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said.

“Don’t be.”

“I’m tired of fighting.”

“Me too.”

“I don’t want to leave.”

“Then don’t.”

Draco tried to breath in a steady rhythm, mirroring Potter’s breaths in his neck.

“Come back with me?”

Draco couldn’t say no.

*

“What happened, between the two of you?” Draco asked one evening.

Clearly there were so much he had missed, so much his _portrait self_ had experienced and _seen_ of Potter that he possibly never had.

“It’s personal!”

“Personal? It was between _us_ , it was supposed to be between _us_.”

Potter’s eyes glistened for a moment and Draco thought he would be seeing tears welling from his eyes, but they never came.

“I can tell you,” Potter said eventually and Draco could hear the apology, but it wasn’t needed.

“Don’t.”

*

“Don’t you ever want to know?”

“What?”

“What we talked about.”

“I rather experience it myself.”

Did he now? Did he really want to live long enough to experience it?

_What is love?_

*

“Can I touch you?”

It wasn’t Potter who had asked this time, it was Draco, and his voice trembled.

What was he really asking?

_What is love?_

Could he love him? Could he love Potter? Was it okay? Would it be okay?

“Always.”

*

That evening was soft candles in darkness, hope where it shouldn’t be any, strong Slytherin green eyes shining where it should only be black, black, black, light fingertips tracing him around his edges, not afraid to touch, but kind, caring.

Was this love? If it was love, would it be so wrong? Was it filthy? The way Potter’s hands unbuttoned Draco’s shirt, the way they took their time, pausing every now and then, emerald eyes searching his face for signs of discomfort, the way Draco’s shirt slipped off his shoulders and those fingers traced the scarring on his torso, the way those lips moved over them in silent apologies, when those hands continued onto his trousers, unfastening his belt, pushing them down, the way Draco stepped out of them, hissing, when those fingers wrapped around his most private parts, touched him in places he had never been skin to skin with anyone before - it should have been filthy, it should have been impure, it should been unnatural, it should be ugly, horrible, it should have been wrong. It didn’t feel wrong, not with those eyes fixed on his, not with the way Potter’s head moved forward, slowly, oh so slowly, his lips just inches from Draco’s, pausing, like his finger’s had, in a quiet question, waiting for approval, an invitation.

“Is this okay?” Potter breathed against him and Draco closed his eyes, closing the space between them, wrapping his arms around that strong body before him, never wanting to let go.

Potter’s clothes followed next, dropping onto the floor in a heap around them, piling up beside Draco’s, fabric touching fabric like skin was touching skin.

Draco’s knees buckled - it might as well have been for losing his balance as it was him backing into the edge of Potter’s bed, and they fell onto it, Draco’s back being hugged by the white covers and Potter’s body resting on top of him, lips never leaving, always touching, tongue seeking his.

Potter’s hand reached to his left arm, caressing its way down, and Draco’s breath hitched when he realised Potter must be touching the Mark, and then it went lower, finding his hand and lacing their fingers for a moment, until he was guided towards Potter, towards his hip, further down, behind, and then his hand was resting on Potter’s arse, smooth skin that burned under his touch.

“Touch me,” Potter breathed against his lips and Draco squeezed, unsure, fingers trembling, and Potter’s fingers wrapped around his wrist instead, guiding him in between his buttocks, until Draco’s index finger was circling that tight ring of muscle.

Suddenly he knew where this was going, and he shivered, breaking their shared lips and tongues and he stared into Potter’s eyes, searching.

“I want-,” he began, not sure how to finish.

“Me too.”

“No-, I mean… I want you to be the one…” Draco gulped, trying to find something to hold onto in Potter’s green gaze, wanting him to understand something he wasn’t really understanding himself, he withdrew his hand, taking Potter’s the way he had with Draco’s and moved it down between them instead, shoving it down, down, taking a sharp inhale as Potter’s fingers graced his very desperate cock but not stopping, not until he was sure Potter found what Draco wanted him to find.

“You want me to…?” Potter asked, sounding out of breath, his voice low, and husky.

“If you want to.”

“But you’ve never…” Potter said, tongue darting out over his lower lip, eyelashes fluttering.

“No, I’ve never…” Draco confirmed, “and I still want to.”

Potter made a sound that could only be liked with an animal, he must have used non verbal magic because when his fingers hit Draco’s entrance again they were wet, and slightly cool and he found himself shivering.

“Alright?”

Draco nodded, willing himself to relax as Potter’s finger made its way inside, slowly, pausing, letting Draco’s body adjust to the feeling.

Was it love? The way Potter had had several digits up his arsehole? Was that just sex? It didn’t feel like _just_ sex, not with the way Potter’s fingers moved so slowly, the way they _caressed_ Draco’s insides, not with the way Potter’s eyes looked at him, as if he was water and Potter had been without anything to drink for several days, it felt like… like something else. Whatever it was, it couldn’t be wrong, not with the way Potter lined himself up, the head of his own cock touching Draco but not pushing inside just yet, the way he asked Draco: “you sure?” and waited until he nodded, the way he was even more careful than with his fingers, stopping every single time he felt Draco tense underneath him, when the pain spiked and he was afraid he would have to put an end to it, Potter stopped, stroking Draco’s hair, his cheek, pressed his lips against his temple, over his eyelids, wet Draco’s lower lip with his own tongue, reaching for Draco’s wilting erection to stroke it into full hardness again, not pushing until he had Draco writhing for more. It couldn’t be wrong, not when Potter moved against him, _inside_ him, not with the way his body was soft and hard all at once, not with the way Potter seemed to reach something inside him he hadn’t known was there. It should have been filthy, it _was_ filthy, dirty, in a way, the way Potter’s prick was buried deep in Draco’s arse, that _should_ have been filthy, that _should_ have been the definition of filth, but it felt good, and when Potter’s cock brushed a spot Draco had no idea he had and he heard a guttural sound and feeling heat spread from neck to cheeks in embarrassment that it was him, himself, who was the source of that very sound - that couldn’t be wrong, it couldn’t be impure. It was good, and he felt whole, complete, as if Potter was made to fill that hole inside him, as if that was exactly where he belonged, where they both belonged.

“S-stop,” he managed and Potter paused instantly, and he was still, hovering above Draco, the only thing moving being Potter’s cock that twitched inside him and Draco groaned, “I’m… I was going to come…” he breathed and Potter smiled, _smiled_ \- it couldn’t be wrong, or else Potter wouldn’t be smiling.

“Then come,” he said, voice soft and Draco made a sound and he came, and came, and came, without Potter having started to move again, he just came like that, eyes shut tight and his hands gripping the bed sheets hard, hips jerking. Draco hadn’t ever come so hard in his life, it had never lasted for so long, black oblivion swallowing him whole but this darkness wasn’t like the one he was so used to, this was _good_. Draco hadn’t noticed Potter starting to move within him again, he only realised once he was starting to come down from his own high, when he opened his eyes and saw Potter moving quick and fast and hard above him, panting, steading himself on strong arms, muscles moving and Draco drew a breath, harsh as he saw Potter’s eyes looking into his, never leaving him.

“Don’t leave me,” was all Draco could think of and Potter’s hips snapped hard against him, and that was when Draco felt it, the hot slickness spilling deep into him and Draco gasped, eyes transfixed on Potter’s eyes as his body shook, riding out the last drops inside him, _inside Draco_ and that should have been even filthier, and yet it felt _good_ and it felt _right_.

Potter kissed him and Draco moaned into it, lost to it, to Potter, to himself and his beliefs.

_What is love? Does it exist?_

This felt like love. If this was love, Draco wanted it.

Potter’s body didn’t stop shaking even after his cock had softened and slipped out of Draco, making them both hiss, at the loss of the connection, loss of touch, overwhelming sensitivity, so Draco moved his arms and held them around Potter, stroking his fingers over Potter’s back in small circles - that was when he felt wetness on his neck, followed by a quiet whimper and Draco tensed for a moment, realising that Potter was crying.

_What is love?_

“I won’t leave you,” Potter sobbed into Draco’s neck and Draco swallowed.

“I won’t leave you either,” he replied, drawing a trembling breath, not sure if it was due to Potter’s weight on him or some raw emotion trying to surge up towards the surface.

Draco thought of waves, of the wind, of cold stone walls, he thought of darkness waiting for him wherever he went, but he didn’t want the waves anymore, and the darkness wasn’t all bad, Potter had showed him another kind of darkness, a darkness where he wasn’t alone, a darkness they could share, with their arms locked around one another.

“I won’t leave you,” he said again, more sure of himself, voice steady and calm and Potter cried, “I’m coming back, I won’t leave you, Potter.”

“Harry,” Potter sobbed and Draco pressed his lips against the top of his head.

“Harry,” he replied against that hateful mop of hair that was soft and rumpled and all that he wanted, all that he needed.

_What is love? Does it exist? Is love to want to sacrifice oneself for another? Is love to only love oneself?_

Draco didn’t know, but did he have to know? He knew one thing, that he wanted to live, he wanted to live for himself, and for… Harry. He wanted to live for the both of them.

This had to be love. It was so much more than Draco had ever experienced with anyone else, it was strong, powerful, and it wasn’t filthy, it wasn’t impure, it wasn’t unnatural, it was right, and good.

_What is love? Does it exist?_

_Love exists. It was strong, and powerful. It was love._

“I love you,” Draco said and it wasn’t difficult, it was easy, as if he had been saying it his entire life.

Harry turned, his tear stained face lightening up and he smiled.

“I know.”

**Author's Note:**

> That was the final ending, thank you so very much for reading, and if you've read The North Sea as well, thank you for staying with me and taking your time to read the both of them!  
> Bookmarks, kudos, hits and especially comments mean the world to me, they're truly making it all worth it! Thank you for all the love and support, I couldn't be more honoured! Thank you for reading, best wishes, and take care of yourselves!


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